


Comparative Literature Is For Idiots

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 26 year old John, Bad Poetry, Bisexual John, English Major!John, Eventual Happy Ending, Homoromantic John, M/M, NO UNDERAGE CREEPERY, Pining Sherlock, Slow Burn, Things are pretty embarrassing, actually not sexy seventeen year old Sherlock, all bad things get better, bad hair, bad outfits, bad personal hygiene, no underage anything, seventeen year old sherlock, uni - Freeform, unspecified AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 10:37:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5783125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thinks he's very bohemian, smoking cigarettes and wearing patchouli oil and writing poetry in the attic. In truth he's just your average seventeen year old, not showering enough and being hit particularly hard by his continued path through puberty.</p><p>John is getting his masters in literature. He's the TA for comparative literature and yearns for romance. Romance has other plans, plans that require him to go without for at least ten more years. Plans that put in front of him the exact man he'll finally fall in love with, but in boy form. </p><p>When Sherlock happens to see John reading poetry at a coffee shop he is immediately smitten. John holds him at arm's length because he's a bloody child. </p><p>How will ten years and miles apart change that view, and will John be able to understand how he's fallen in love with someone he doesn't ever get to see?</p><p>Stay tuned for puberty hi jinx and the passing of time to find out. And yes, there will be love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little something to cheer up my best friend in the whole world.

Sherlock hated uni. The people were much older than him and, though his fear of being bullied never really came to fruition like it had in his younger years, he was laughed at when he tried to speak up in class. They were quiet giggles but they hurt. 

Speaking was an issue at that time, puberty deciding that his first semester in university would be the perfect time to change his voice from a high pitched squeak to something rumbling without his approval. Not that it being an issue would stop someone as full of piss and vinegar as Sherlock Holmes but it did slow him a bit. He knew that if he were to talk in class it had better be to make someone else look like a fool or he would be laughed out of the room. 

The worst part was that he had to leave behind his only friends, Benjamin and Damien, for the whole of the day and they were both getting a bit tired of hearing about his classes.

"At least you get to be around pretty girls," Damien interjected one night as they were up in Sherlock's room, previously the attic, secretly smoking cigarettes and whining about their days. "We're stuck being surrounded by the likes of Dane Miller and his lot while you sit next to birds in short skirts!"

Sherlock frowned and went back to drawing in his notebook, not exactly sure how his obvious gayness had remained invisible to his closest friends.

"Can you take photos with your mobile?" Benjamin asked.

Sherlock ignored him and took another drag. "I'm only in it for the science, and you know that. Getting my chemistry degree is the only thing I'm interested in. And blasted Mycroft says I have to take comparative English next semester along with psychology. I don't see what it has to do with my degree at all."

The other two boys grumbled and secretly decided that Sherlock wasn't any fun anymore now that he was off being an adult and only came to them to complain about it.

_____

Several weeks later, after Mrs Holmes noticed that Sherlock's friends weren't coming around much anymore, Sherlock found a flyer for a poetry night at a local coffee shop in his rucksack. Mrs H had always been a bit concerned for her younger son because he was always so angry and, after stumbling upon some of his darkest poetry, thought that maybe it was the best way to get it out of his system. She knew it couldn't be easy to be in uni and still wearing braces.

Sherlock ignored his whole Intro to Biology class that day by sitting in the back of the hall and writing in his notebook. When the bell rang he thought he might have written something moderately good. He looked it over and walked out of the class, ignoring the several students that scrunched up their noses as he passed.

_____

"Patchouli?" Mycroft said as Sherlock walked up to him in the parking complex. "And you really think that covers up the cigarette smoke?"

"Oh, come off it," Sherlock replied, quickly slipping into the passenger seat of Mycroft's car and tossing his bag in the back. "You're just upset that you never thought of it."

"I never thought of it because it stinks," Mycroft said as he pulled out to the main street.

"I don't stink," Sherlock said. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes and wondered when his brother would learn that good hygiene trumped heavily scented oils any day. He sighed and rolled his window down and Sherlock brushed his hair out of his eyes.

"You've got a show you're going to tonight, correct?" Mycroft asked.

"Maybe," Sherlock replied.

"You should think about showering before you do so," Mycroft said smoothly. 

Sherlock flushed all the way up to his ears and growled a bit.

_____

That night Sherlock was freshly showered, of his own accord, mind you, and standing in front of his dresser picking out clothes when his mother knocked on his door.

"Go away!" He squeaked, pulling the towel tighter around his waist and curling in on himself.

"William," his mother chirped through the door. "I've set out some money for tonight on the dining room table. You can get yourself something to eat out if you want. Your father and I are leaving for the cinema."

"Sherlock!" Sherlock shouted.

"Oh, of course, dear," she amended. "Have a good time, Sherlock."

Sherlock grumbled and pulled out what he thought of as his best outfit; rust brown corduroys, a large white t-shirt and a blue sweater vest. He pulled the lot on and cinched his belt and tried to control his hair with a bit too much hairspray. The final product was a sort of crispy, yet flat, nest on top of his head. He frowned at it and picked at one of the spots on his chin before taking on the arduous task of flossing with braces. 

'Two more months,' he thought, 'two more months and they'll be off.'

_____

John sat up in bed and checked his watch. He needed to be to the poetry reading in a half hour and he wasn't even dressed. He stood and went for a quick shower as Sarah rolled over and went back to sleep.

Sarah. Sarah was kind. Sarah's was kind and stable and exactly what his parents would want of him but she was also incredibly boring. He'd tried to fall in love with her, they had been dating for five months, but he just never could. She was good to him and wonderful in bed and a great kisser but she just wasn't someone he'd fall in love with.

That was an issue for him, the main issue life faced him with; he couldn't fall in love.

It was insulting and confusing that he couldn't seem to because he was, in every other aspect of life, a bloody romantic. He was passionate and engaged and ached to feel romance in his life the way he'd read it in books. 

For a while he was convinced that love was some sort of big conspiracy, the way he'd felt about those majic eye posters where he could never, for the life of him, see the dolphin. And then, a few years later, he realised that maybe his first interpretation wasn't so off. Love was exactly like the majic eye posters. It was there, he could study the science behind it and the personal descriptions of those that had experienced it, but he could never experience it himself.

John was, for all intents and purposes, love-blind. 

He came to terms with it and decided that he was lucky to at least be able to study love through literature without the dizzying sheen of actual love to cloud his brain. He could see love for what it was, a chemical process that resulted in a mental state unlike any other, and understand it like millions who experienced it never could. He could appreciate love without trying to explain his own feelings and that would somehow set him free. 

And it almost worked. Almost. It was only those few nights when he couldn't sleep and was wracked with a nostalgia for the thing he'd never felt that he suffered. Those were the times that the words 'better to have loved and lost' stung like the devil. 

But they were few and far between. 

He was pulled from his thoughts as Sarah slipped into the shower behind him and kissed his shoulder.

"You okay, baby?" She asked, voice sleepy.

He nodded and leaned down to kiss her lips before getting out of the shower and towel drying on his way to the closet. He put on a pair of his favorite denims and an old shirt before getting a pair of socks and pulling on his shoes. Sarah was out of the shower by the time he was done brushing his teeth and ready to head out and she kissed him again and passed him a sweatshirt.

She smiled at him as he grabbed his car keys. "It's cold out. Be careful of ice on the road."

"I will," he promised.

"I love you," she said as he left.

"Love you, too," he lied.

_____

Sherlock was shivering by the time he arrived at the coffee shop and quickly bought himself a large black coffee. He was late and the lights were already lowered and someone was finishing their set and being cheered off the stage. He took a seat near the edge of the stage, a precarious position that caused him to have to crane his neck and look almost directly into the stage lights to see the next performer, and sipped at his coffee as the announcer once again took the mic.

"Next on the stage we have an old friend. John Watson will read to us one of the best poems out there, Howl."

Everyone looked through their handouts and Sherlock frowned, angry with himself for missing out on it by being late, and a handsome blond took the stage. Sherlock's heart immediately thumped harder in his chest as he took in the ease with which the man cleared his throat and began to recite.

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,  
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

Angel-headed hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection

to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,"

_____

By the time the poem was done most of the people were on their feet and John left the stage into a riotous crowd, people slapping him on the back and shaking his hand. Sherlock watched him walk to the front door and then ran to catch up.

"You were amazing!" Sherlock shouted, catching up to John as he walked out the front door.

John looked over at him and seemed amused. He held his hand out and Sherlock took it in both his as if he were about to be pulled into a life raft.

"I'm John," John said, trying not to giggle at the boy's enthusiasm. He was young, probably fifteen, and clearly a bit off, but John wouldn't hold it against him.

"I know your name," the boy said with a wide grin. "Not sure I'll ever forget it. I'm Sherlock Holmes."

John chuckled at that and tentatively pulled his hand back. "Enjoy the show, then?"

"Immensely," Sherlock replied.

"But you won't stay for the last few acts?" John asked, nodding towards the coffee shop where someone new was taking the stage.

"I have no use for them," Sherlock said, voice cracking a bit as he shivered, "not after hearing you."

John chuckled a bit and put his hands on his hips. "You're shivering."

Sherlock shrugged and wrapped his thin arms around himself and took a step closer to John. John swallowed and sighed deeply before speaking. The boy was watching him with intense and obvious admiration and John had a feeling he'd be followed home if he wasn't careful.

"I was going to go get something to eat," he said. "Would you like to join me?"

_____

Ten minutes later they were sitting in a small fish and chip place under fluorescent lights and Sherlock was exactly as intense as he had been before. They'd both ordered and were waiting for their meals and Sherlock was going on about how he'd never heard anything like what John had read when it occurred to John that the boy had it in his head that John had written the poem. The famous poem, Howl, by Allen Ginsberg.

"I write poetry," Sherlock said, fingers tearing at his paper napkin as he went on. "I don't think mine it as good as that, though."

'Nor mine,' John thought.

"And my brother wants me to take comparative literature next semester but I told him it's bollocks. All the stuff they read is so outdated, not like what you write, and it's all written by a bunch of dead men anyhow so really what could it have to do with my life? And I'm going for my chemistry degree so it won't help with hat either," Sherlock continued.

"Where do you go to school?" John asked, sitting forward a bit.

"Local uni, obviously," Sherlock said, starting in on his food as soon at it was set down in front of him.

"Which class was it that your brother wanted you to sign up for?" John asked, chest tightening with excitement.

"Comparative with Miller," Sherlock added. "I've passed all the intro exams already because I'm a genius so they won't make me take anything lower than that but I'm still not interested. Comparative literature is for idiots."

John pulled his mobile from his pocket and fiddled with it a bit before looking up. "Take the class. Trust me."

Sherlock scrunched up his nose but nodded, going back to his food. 

_____

A half hour later John was sitting back listening to some of Sherlock's poetry. It was awful. That wasn't to say he was an awful poet, just that his poetry so far was overreaching and not exactly authentic. That was how everyone started out though, you know what you want to write and so you try and try until it gets closer to it. You start with appreciation and you slowly create your own interpretation of it. It came with time.

That didn't mean the stuff coming from Sherlock's notebook was any easier to stomach, though, or that when he'd finally closed it John's was any less relieved.

"You have a lot of dark stuff going on in your brain, yeah?" John asked, setting out cash for the bill.

Sherlock nodded intensely and John swallowed, trying to think of something encouraging to say.

"How do I get better?" Sherlock said, for the first time speaking softly.

"Keep writing," John replied honestly. "Keep writing and keep consuming literature. Read everything you can and write as often as possible."

"You're very wise," Sherlock said, looking up through long eyelashes.

John tried not to grin at Sherlock's naïveté and shrugged. "I've just got more years in than you, is all. Would you like a ride home?"

Sherlock felt himself blush and looked down into his plate before speaking, the thought of being alone in a car with John making his overly active cock twitch. "Yes."

John nodded and stood, waiting for Sherlock to catch up before walking out into the cold night and down the street to where his car was parked. He opened the passenger side door for Sherlock and walked round to get behind the wheel.

"You'll have to be my navigator," John said as he fiddled with the radio and turned the lights on.

"Head towards the campus," Sherlock said, feeling like the entire world was contained in the small car.

_____

John followed Sherlock's directions and nodded along to the music and fifteen minutes later they were in front of a small family home. John pulled to the kerb and put the car in park and Sherlock fidgeted beside him.

"Is this..." Sherlock tried weakly, "where we kiss?"

John nearly choked on his own saliva at the ridiculous question but pulled himself back together when he saw that the boy was serious. He cleared his throat and tried to be as gentle as possible.

"Look, I'm sorry if you got the wrong impression but I'm not..." He stumbled, trying to think of the best way to cut off the boy's intentions completely. He'd hold out hope if he was told John was in a relationship, so- "gay."

Sherlock's eyes shot wide and he nodded, chewing his bottom lip. 

"But I'm flattered at your interest," John added.

"Of course," Sherlock said, crestfallen but not devastated. "Well, if you'd like to talk about poetry or, I don't know, I've put my number in your mobile."

John took his mobile from Sherlock's hand, not sure when the boy had swiped it, and nodded as Sherlock got from the car and leaned over to speak one last time.

"I think you are," he said, "one of the best minds of our generation."


	2. Part Two

John was out to dinner with Sarah three weeks later when he got his first text from Sherlock. He figured the little bugger must have got his number as he was leaving his own in John's phone those few weeks before. He actually smiled a bit when it came through.

I SIGNED UP FOR THE CLASS. IF IT'S SHITE I'LL HOLD IT AGAINST YOU. SH

"Who's got you smiling?" Sarah asked as she picked at her chicken, not exactly happy with the direction, or rather lack thereof, their relationship was going in.

"Just this kid I met at the poetry thing. He's a ball of hormones," John explained as he typed out a response.

IT'LL BE WORTH IT. HAVE YOU READ ANYTHING NEW LATELY? JW 

"Just this kid?" She asked. "Interesting enough for you to answer a text whilst we're out at dinner."

John set down his mobile and looked across the table at her. She was upset because he'd stopped telling her he loved her after she'd pressed him to explain why. He supposed the lie wouldn't have lasted forever and looked down at his food.

"What are we doing, John?" She asked. "I can tell you're bored. We never do anything new. Why are we even together?"

John set his fork down and motioned for the waiter.

_____

Over the next two months Sherlock and John texted nearly every day. Sherlock also sent John some of his horrendous poetry and John sent him things to read, surprised by how quickly the boy went through them. 

Sarah broke up with John two weeks after their uncomfortable dinner out and John had some pretty terrific one night stands but nothing that would hold on in the daylight. He wasn't too bothered by it though as he had a lot of work to do to get ready to TA a class for the first time.

When the first day of class came and John was waiting to be introduced he wasn't actually surprised to see Sherlock had shown up. He smiled at the boy and Sherlock grinned back at him, a bit confused, and wrote a set of question marks on his notepad. He held it up and John winked at him.

"And for our first reading I give you my wonderful TA, John Watson. He'll walk you through Howl by Allen Ginsberg," professor Miller said, nodding towards John.

"Turn to page fifteen of your book and we'll begin," John said, taking the seat facing the class and starting to read aloud.

Sherlock's stomach sank as he heard the poem he'd thought was written by John read aloud in that same voice. He flushed and wondered if anyone else noticed, eyes stuck on the page as John seamlessly recited the lines.

_____

At the end of the class Sherlock got his things together and made to leave. John snagged his arm as he walked past and Sherlock flushed again and spoke under his breath.

"You should have told me you didn't write that poem," he said.

"I know, but you were so insistent that what they taught in these classes couldn't be any good. I just thought," John tried.

"So I haven't really heard any of your poetry. You could be crap and I've been taking your advice," Sherlock said, frowning and moving out of the way as the room steadily emptied.

"Would you like to read some of my work?" John asked, looking to ease the obvious pain he had cause.

Sherlock looked up with wide and searching eyes and nodded.

"Have you got class now?" John asked.

"Not until tonight," Sherlock said, fidgeting with the too-long sleeve of his stripped jumper.

John smiled a bit and tried to remember what it was like to be so young and so unsure of yourself. "Do you want to come back to my flat for coffee?" 

Sherlock swallowed and nodded and John walked with him outside and to his car.

"You've got your braces off," John said as they drove away from the school.

Sherlock ran his tongue across the inside of his teeth and nodded, the feeling still a bit strange. "Last week. They feel weird. I'm meant to be wearing my retainers but I'm not."

"You rebel," John said with a laugh.

Sherlock blushed again and covered his lap with his rucksack.

_____

On the campus over the next semester people would often see Sherlock and John together. John had taken the boy under his wing a bit after seeing how lonely he was and how everyone on campus treated him like he didn't exist. 

They were the odd couple; popular footballer and academic walking beside an awkward misfit. 

When someone did manage to comment on it John simply shut them down and kept moving, Sherlock blushing furiously at his side and standing a bit taller. Sherlock took well to standing next to John and started to try to emulate the man as best he could, first by cutting his hair shorter and then by wearing a poorly fitting pair of denims almost every single day. It was charming.

Sherlock's keen eyes weren't just trained to John's clothing, though, and soon Sherlock realised John's particular dilemma. He brought it up one day as they were studying in the grass under a tree in the center of campus.

"You don't love your girlfriend," Sherlock said, staring at John as the older man chewed on his biro. "All your poems are about love but you've never experienced it."

"Sorry, what?" John sputtered, almost forgetting the boy was there as he'd been so silent for so long.

"You've never been in love," Sherlock reiterated.

"Why...why do you say that?" John asked, still confused as to how he'd been found out and very much feeling like a fraud.

"Your poems are technically accurate but they lack passion," Sherlock said, unperturbed by John's obvious denial. "You write as an observer."

"I don't write as an observer!" John spat defensively.

"Who have you loved, John?" Sherlock asked, thinking of all the times John had made him feel such intense feelings. "Who is it that has made you feel completely in their orbit? Who has your heart clenched for over and over? Who's stolen your breath?"

John cleared his throat and closed his notebook. "You're being a real arsehole."

Sherlock sat up and looked completely shocked for a second before crossing his arms. "You told me to be genuine in my writing. I'm just asking why you won't."

"And what do you know about love, Sherlock?" John shot back. "What do you know about love at the ripe old age of seventeen?"

Sherlock's mouth dropped open and he took on a defensive posture and John felt horrifically guilty for saying anything.

"Maybe you should write your next poem about being a liar, John, then it might actually have some feeling behind it!" Sherlock said, cheeks colouring.

John stood and got his things together and left without another word.

_____

It took two weeks for Sherlock and John to finally talk. When they did it was under the guise of criticizing someone else's work. They never said they were sorry but things got back to normal pretty quickly.

They were best friends again for the whole next year and things seemed to have evened out when John got the news that he'd been accepted into a prestigious teaching program in Germany. When he told Sherlock things blew up.

"Why on earth would you want to move to Germany?" Sherlock asked, seething.

"I've been trying to get into this program for three years, Sherlock. I don't want to move away but I want to do this," John tried to explain.

"But you can't leave," Sherlock said weakly, eyebrows knit.

"I can come visit you on break," John said. "Or you could come visit me."

"Promise you'll come back for Christmas," Sherlock said. "Promise."

"I promise," John replied, not having seen Sherlock so upset.

_____

That night Sherlock cried his heart out into his pillow until he could hardly breathe. He couldn't lose John, he just couldn't. He'd be so alone without him. 

John had come into his life and opened his eyes to so many things. He'd made Sherlock feel like no one else had before. He was kind and funny and Sherlock was so helplessly in love with him that life after John looked like a hellscape he'd never survive.

_____

Three months later Sherlock drove John to the airport with all his things. They sat in the parking lot for a whole five minutes without saying anything, a time that was truly painful for both of them, before Sherlock spoke.

"Do you want to know how I knew you'd never been in love?" Sherlock asked, eyes on his knees.

"Sherlock," John said, sighing and looking out the window.

"I suppose you already know," Sherlock said. "You're not completely stupid."

"Don't give up on writing just because I'm leaving, okay?" John asked, his hand moving to Sherlock's shoulder. "You've made such progress."

"I won't be the same without you," Sherlock whispered, looking at John's hand.

"We never are. Everyone is always changing," John said.

"You're such a bloody romantic," Sherlock said, sniffling a bit and angrily wiping his tears away.

"I'll miss you," John said.

Sherlock looked up at him and John breathed deeply before pulling his hand away and getting out of the car.

_____

John didn't come home for Christmas. He said he didn't have money for airfare and Sherlock believed him. 

Sherlock spent the whole of the break locked in his bedroom smoking and listening to depressing music and writing John's name on his forearm with a black biro. 

John spent Christmas break studying and working on his German and missing Sherlock terribly.

He hadn't realised how close they'd become until he left and he knew that was his own fault. Sherlock had seen it well enough but he'd been so caught up in learning how to teach and getting laid that he had missed how viciously his new shadow stuck to him. Now that he was well and truly alone he felt the lack of Sherlock as a physical wound. 

He spoke to him sometimes without meaning to, saying something aloud and then clenching his jaw when Sherlock didn't reply. 

_____

John and Sherlock emailed each other regularly, every other day at the least, for the next four years and John found himself more and more hesitant to visit. 

Things were changing for Sherlock. He was twenty two and the head of his class and his brilliance was unfurling as his confidence grew. Instead of just saying everyone was stupid Sherlock was now explaining how people in particular were stupid, giving real examples of how they were wrong. Sherlock had taken that little bit of himself that saw through people and was now polishing it and making it into a bloody weapon.

The first time Sherlock spoke of a criminal case John wondered how he hadn't seen it before. That kind of insight didn't belong anywhere else.


	3. Part Three

The first time Sherlock didn't email John for six days straight was four years later. He'd finished his degree and started up a side business as a sort of private investigator and John was getting the feeling that he was no longer needed. Sherlock had his own life, after all, and John had always thought of himself as a sort of mentor to the boy, scratch that; man. 

Sherlock was out living on his own and had a steady job and was consulting for the Met and John was a teacher with a string of unsuccessful relationships and a small flat near work. Sherlock's life was full of intrigue, full of excitement, just full, so John figured it was only a matter of time before he was left behind like a beloved blanket or stuffed toy.

He ached with the need to talk to Sherlock, felt that his day wasn't complete without the comfortable banter they'd worked up over the years. He didn't understand the undeniable sense of loss that came with not talking to Sherlock for so long, the depressed state he was in at the thought of being cut off from the person he felt closest to. He couldn't understand that the mounting affection and physical need for Sherlock was exactly what he'd been missing in his life. 

He would soon enough.

At the end of those arduous six days, days Sherlock spent working a case and talking out loud to a John that was so many miles away, John's mobile rang. His heart stuttered to a stop in his chest as he saw the call was coming from London. Sherlock must have been horribly injured, as they hadn't used the phone line to converse in over eight years; the cost being exorbitant.

He answered immediately, walking right out of his classroom and leaving the students confused.

"This is John," he said, dread coiling in his belly.

"It was the gardener," came a deep voice John didn't recognise.

"I'm sorry, who is this?" John asked, thoroughly confused.

"Sherlock, obviously," the voice said dismissively. "As I was saying, it was the gardener. They found the body buried in the back yard beneath the petunias!"

John found his head spinning. Sherlock was alright. Sherlock was alright and calling him and his voice...god, his voice. His voice was something else entirely, no longer that of the awkward teenager he used to know but one of a man that had made it out of puberty with something to show for it.

"John?" Sherlock asked. "Oh, have I interrupted one of your classes?"

John cleared his throat and fidgeted, chewing his lip as his cock took keen interest in the proceedings. "Yeah, um, maybe we could talk tonight?"

"Yes, of course. Tonight. I'll, well, I'll wait for your call," Sherlock said, ringing off abruptly and leaving John to lean against the wall and try to calm himself.

_____

That night John sat on his bed with his mobile in his hands. He was going to call Sherlock.

It should have been easy, the simple tap of a thumb, but it wasn't. He couldn't even blame it on the fact that they hadn't spoken over the phone in so many years. It was Sherlock's voice. He felt guilty for the way his body was responding, felt guilty for the fact that his first impulse was to have a quick wank before calling.

He couldn't stop thinking about how shocking it was to find Sherlock had grown so much and wondered what other changes time had brought with it. Once again; guilty. 

He kept telling himself that it was okay, that he wasn't sexualizing a child, that he hadn't been attracted to Sherlock before so it wasn't as if he was a paedophile. Sherlock was twenty-six and a man in his own right and John's sudden attraction wasn't bad or evil, it just was.

He dialed the number and listened to the ring, waiting for Sherlock to pick up.

"John," Sherlock said, sleep making his voice even more appealing.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" John said, stumbling over his words.

"Mmm," Sherlock murmured. "Haven't slept in three days. The case."

"Jesus, you really have to take better care of yourself, Sherlock," John said, relaxing a bit and sitting back against the headboard.

Sherlock yawned and John could hear the mattress under him creak as he shifted. "I realised we hadn't emailed in almost a week. I wasn't ignoring you. The case got away from me for a while. I've missed you."

John swallowed hard and nodded to no one. "I missed you, too. It's, it's okay, though. You have your own life."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sherlock asked, suddenly seeming more awake.

"Nothing," John replied, "I just mean that I know you're busy and I don't want you to feel like you're tied down or anything. You've got that Gavin guy you're always talking about, the detective, and you've got your job. I just don't want you to feel like you owe me-"

John knew that he was not only rambling but sounding like a jealous boyfriend who'd resigned himself to the break-up and was incredibly relieved when Sherlock interrupted.

"Gavin? Oh, Lestrade. Lestrade is an idiot, John. You're the only person who interests me," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock, you can't say that. I'm in Germany for Christ's sake. You can't keep holding this torch for me," John said, feeling like he was going to be sick.

"Right," Sherlock said, sounding upset. "I know my affection for you has always made you uncomfortable. I'll attempt to keep it more well hidden. I'd better go."

"Sherlock, I didn't mean-" John began.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock said before ringing off.

John sat on his bed for a long time feeling like complete shit. He wanted to tell Sherlock that he was wrong, that the affection could quite possibly be returned, but what if HE was wrong? What if he didn't actually feel that way about Sherlock? What if he was just lonely and ascribing those feelings to the closest person to him? What if he gave Sherlock false hope? What did he even have to offer?

_____

Over the next year they managed to put the awkward conversation behind them, doing it the old fashioned way by pretending it never happened. John tried to get whatever he was feeling out of his system with women, and then men, but it didn't work.

Sherlock had, after all that time, somehow wormed his way into John's heart.

It hit John full force one day when he was listening to an old tape he found in his desk on his break in the teacher's lounge. It was The Cure, a band he'd never really been obsessed with but enjoyed nonetheless. The first song came on, crackling from overuse and age, and he sipped his coffee.

It was Just Like Heaven. It was a good song, one he'd always liked, and he nodded his head to the beat, listening to the lyrics. 

And then it happened. Like a freight train. Loud and blaring and running him down.

""Why are you so far away?" she said  
"Why won't you ever know that I'm in love with you  
That I'm in love with you"  
You  
Soft and only  
You  
Lost and lonely  
You  
Strange as angels  
Dancing in the deepest oceans  
Twisting in the water  
You're just like a dream  
Daylight licked me into shape  
I must have been asleep for days  
And moving lips to breathe her name  
I opened up my eyes  
And found myself alone alone  
Alone…"

By the end of the song he was angrily wiping tears from his eyes and thanking whoever was in heaven at that moment for letting him be the only one in the lounge.

Love. That was what was going on. He was in love with Sherlock. What a bloody cruel joke it was, that after years of wishing for love he got what he asked for in this awful form. Unrequited wasn't quite it, because he knew Sherlock felt the same. Unresolved. Unresolved love.

He'd spent his whole adult life studying love in all its forms yet never believed he'd feel it, and when he finally did it wasn't romance and kissing in the rain but a knife in his chest and a weakness in his knees and a horrid, horrid longing that left him feeling so incredibly empty. 

He was finally in love and, God, how it hurt.

_____

Just when he thought all was lost, just when he felt his fate had been laid out and there was nothing to do about it, he received a phone call from an old teacher of his.

Mr Miller was retiring. He wanted to know if John would like to take his place. He'd spoken to the dean and John could start the next semester if he was willing to come back to London early and fill out the required paperwork and get settled in. 

He was going home.


	4. Part Four

Sherlock was in the middle of an experiment when he got the call from John. He pushed his goggles up after removing his gloves and pulled his mobile out of his pocket.

"What?" He said a bit shortly, assuming it was Lestrade.

"It's, uh, it's me," John said nervously.

Sherlock took a seat and swallowed. It had been some time since they'd talked on the phone. "Hello, John."

"Hi, I just," John tried, stopping to clear his throat, "well, I have some news."

"News?" Sherlock asked, heart beating faster.

"Yeah. Do you remember professor Miller?" John asked.

"Is he dead? Has he been murdered? Should I take up the case?" Sherlock asked quickly, standing and starting to pace in the sitting room.

"No," John said, "he's alive. He's just, well, he's retiring."

"Oh," Sherlock replied, confusion colouring his words.

John cleared his throat and went on. "So he...he asked if I wanted his job. And I said yes."

"His job," Sherlock said. "In London."

"Yes, in London."

"So...you'll be living in London..." Sherlock said, feeling a bit dizzy.

"Yeah," John chuckled. "Don't think the commute would be very good from Munich."

"When?" Sherlock asked, sitting on the sofa and clutching the mobile tightly. "When will you be coming home?"

"Actually," John replied, the nervousness coming back, "I'll be flying in Friday. I was thinking maybe we could meet up for coffee Monday. It'll give me a few days to-"

"Yes," Sherlock interrupted. "Coffee."

John sighed with relief and licked his lips. "Okay. Good. Coffee on Monday. I'll, I'll give you a ring on Sunday, alright?"

"O-okay," Sherlock stuttered. 

"I'll let you get back to whatever you were doing," John said. "And I, uh, guess I'll be seeing you soon."

And with that he rang off, leaving Sherlock to fall back dramatically on the sofa and clutch a pillow to his chest.

John was coming home.

_____

That Friday John was walking through the park at Bart's with a coffee when someone called out his name. He turned to find an old school mate standing behind him.

"John Watson," the man said with a grin. "It's me, Mike Stamford. We went to school together."

"Right," John said, nodding. "How have you been?"

_____

Twenty minutes later, after explaining that he hadn't found a flatshare yet, John found himself accompanying Mike to the lab at Bart's to meet someone he knew that was also looking to share a flat.

He walked into the lab, looking around as he did, and laid his eyes on an incredibly handsome man bent over a microscope. There was something familiar about him but John couldn't put his finger on it.

"Ah, Mike," the man said, deep voice causing the breath to catch in John's throat. "I knew it was only a matter of time before-"

John stood, wide-eyed, as the man turned and he recognised not only the voice but also the piercing eyes. Sherlock bloody Holmes. He was...well, grown up.

"John," Sherlock choked out.

"You know each other?" Mike asked, grinning again in amusement.

"Yes, John is...John is my best friend," Sherlock said, taking a step forward. 

Mike looked between them and quietly left the room.

"You're...taller," John said, licking his lips.

Sherlock wiggled his hips a bit and felt a flush moving up his neck. "You aren't."

John burst into laughter and Sherlock smiled with him, lopsided grin just adding to his beauty.

"I can't believe this," John said once he'd caught his breath.

"It seems that fate has stuck us together once again," Sherlock said.

John sighed happily and took a few steps forward, hands slipping into his pockets as he stopped himself from embracing the man. "I thought you didn't believe in things like that anymore, Mr Science."

"Perhaps you bring out the romantic in me," Sherlock said, blushing harder and turning around to avoid John's gaze. "Would you like to see the flat?"

"Yeah," John said standing a bit taller. "Let's go."

_____

John moved in that night, spending the first evening joking with Sherlock and eating takeaway as they watched crap telly. His chest felt that it might burst and he couldn't keep himself from small touches as he walked by or passed Sherlock the takeaway box, wanting to know Sherlock was real. 

The urge to kiss Sherlock was a physical weight that only seemed to lift when he made the man laugh and as they sat there late into the night, Sherlock's toes pressed beneath John's thigh on the sofa for warmth, John promised himself he'd never stop making the genius laugh.

_____

A week later, as they'd settled into a comfortable rhythm, Sherlock broke into John's laptop for the first time. The password was pathetic so he figured it was really John's fault after all. He looked through the files until he found what he was searching for, the folder where John kept his writing.

What he found made his stomach turn.

John's writing had improved. His poems were now filled with warmth and pain and Sherlock frowned as he realised that John must have finally fallen in love. All his poems were about longing and missing the one he loved.

That was when he just about lost his damn mind.

_____

John came home that night to find Sherlock waving around a few crumpled pieces of paper. He stopped in the doorway, eyebrows knit, and waited for an explanation.

"Who is she, John?" Sherlock demanded. "You can't just have some WOMAN move in here with us without saying anything!"

"What are you talking about?" John asked, on the defensive and thoroughly confused, as he closed the door.

"The woman you're in love with! This kind of sentiment wouldn't just end when you moved back to London so she's going to move here at some point, I simply want to know when you were going to tell me!" Sherlock shot back.

John took a few steps forward and pulled the papers from Sherlock's hand. They were his poems, the ones he'd written about Sherlock, printed out and obviously crumpled into balls a few times before being flattened out again.

"You looked through my laptop," John said, voice low and angry. "That's not okay, Sherlock."

He looked up to find Sherlock's eyes brimming with tears and everything fell into place. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck and let the papers fall to the floor.

"It's you," he said, and then when Sherlock still looked confused, "I'm in love with you."

"But," Sherlock sputtered, one tear rolling down his cheek, "but you aren't gay."

John smiled sadly and shrugged. "No, but I am bisexual."

Sherlock looked at his hands for a disturbing amount of time before whispering, "you're in love with me."

"Yes," John said, taking Sherlock's hands in his.

"How, how long?" Sherlock asked, looking up to search John's face for lies.

"Several years, I think. For a long time I didn't exactly know what it was," John admitted.

"Several YEARS?" Sherlock shouted. "And you let me think I was alone in this?"

"I'm sorry-" John tried, just to be cut off by Sherlock's hot mouth on his.

John moaned into it as he was pushed backwards, his back colliding with the door forcefully, and Sherlock's fingers gripped his shoulders before running up into his hair. 

"I love you," Sherlock said between kisses and nips, "I've always loved you."

"I know," John said, finally feeling the other side of love, the one that was wondrous and overwhelmingly warm. "I know."

"You love me," Sherlock said, pulling John's head back to search his eyes with a fevered gaze. "Me. Just me."

"Yes, you," John chuckled, reaching up to run his thumb across Sherlock's cheekbone. "Gorgeous, wonderful, mad you."

Tears started to run down Sherlock's cheeks again and he choked on a sob as John pulled him into an embrace.

_____

That night, after dinner where John held Sherlock's hand in public and Sherlock could barely stop grinning enough to eat his food, John joined Sherlock in his bed. They kissed slowly as John checked to make sure they weren't moving too fast and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I've been waiting over ten years for this," Sherlock huffed as he pulled at John's jumper.

John chuckled and started to unbutton Sherlock's shirt. "I've been waiting my whole life."

_____

The first push into Sherlock, after much preparation, was enough to make John nearly collapse on top of him. It was hot and tight and somehow nothing like he'd ever experienced with any other man before.

"John," Sherlock murmured, bringing John back from his thoughts. "This is where you move."

John leaned down and sealed their lips together and started a slow roll of his hips. Sherlock wrapped his legs around John's waist and they fucked like that, slow and steady. 

It took about five minutes for Sherlock to beg for more, his voice ragged and desperate. John snapped his hips forward and kissed his neck and Sherlock moaned as he threw his head back.

"John!" He shouted.

"That's it," John murmured, reaching up to brush Sherlock's curls from his forehead.

Sherlock grunted and tilted his hips and John's cock brushed against his prostate, white lights shooting behind his eyelids. He gripped his prick and started to jerk himself off as John leaned down to whisper in his ear.

"Perfect, that's it, perfect."

Sherlock whined high in his throat and started to come, his arsehole clenching around John's cock and milking him to orgasm right along with Sherlock. They finally collapsed in a sweaty embrace and Sherlock buried his face in John's neck.

"This is real," he said, sounding bewildered.

"It is," John replied.

"And you're going to stay," Sherlock said.

"Yes, Sherlock. I'm not going anywhere."

"I make your writing better," Sherlock said, slow grin making its way onto his lips.

John chuckled and leaned back to kiss him. "That you do. Don't look so smug."

Sherlock sighed happily and let John clean him up and kiss him softly before falling asleep in his arms.

_____

A year later, a year of comfortable living and chases through alleys, John being the only English professor with a side job as a consulting detective's muscle, they went to Sherlock's house on Christmas Eve. John hadn't been there in so long and he felt nostalgic as they pulled up to the front yard. Sherlock turned to him, looking nervous, and John kissed his hand before passing money to the cabbie and getting out.

"John!" Mrs Holmes said from the front porch. "Look how you've grown!"

John smiled and went to shake her hand.

"You nearly broke him, leaving like you did," she said under her breath.

John shifted where he stood and looked over his shoulder to Sherlock.

"You won't do that again," she added.

"No," John said. "This is for the long haul."

She smiled again and let go of his hand and they all moved into the sitting room.

_____

Christmas morning John woke Sherlock up before the rest of the household.

"Is Christmas over yet?" Sherlock asked, stretching and rolling onto his stomach.

John chuckled and sat on the edge of the bed. "Not just yet, love," and when Sherlock tried to fall back to sleep, "will you wake up so I can give you your present?"

"It better not be socks," Sherlock grumbled, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. What he saw in John's eyes gave him pause. "What's wrong? It's okay if it's socks!"

John laughed and reached for Sherlock's hand and Sherlock gave it tentatively. 

"You wanted to kiss me that first night," John said. "You must have seen something that I didn't."

"John," Sherlock murmured, eyebrows pulling together.

"Let me finish. You always get to talk, so just let me...let me finish," John said, fond smile curling his lips. "I know it took a long time for me to see it too, but now that I have I cant deny it. God, this is hard."

Sherlock giggled and his eyes welled with tears.

John took a deep breath and slipped a gold band out of his pocket. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me and I'd be honoured if you'd be my husband."

Sherlock choked out a sob and closed his eyes and John squeezed his hand.

"Is that a yes?" John asked.

"Obviously," Sherlock sputtered, tears rolling down his cheeks as John slipped the ring onto his hand.

_____

A year later John published his first compilation of love poems to resounding acclaim. He dedicated them to his brilliant husband, without whom he would have never truly understood love.


End file.
